Switchblade Heart
by Child of the Ashes
Summary: Grimmjow is a killer searching for something he lost. Ichigo just wants to get away in one piece. Three lives, endless possibility, one chance to get it right. Hard R.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Switchblade Heart

Warnings: Language, smut, Grimmjow.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Authorial Notice:

I don't know what I'm doing anymore. It's been so long since I've written anythinnnnng, but this story wouldn't leave me alone.

.

.

There's a loaded gun pointed at his head, and Ichigo is trying hard not to be irritated about it.

The brief idea that he should be more concerned comes and goes, but after everything, honestly, the novelty is wearing off. But more than that, he's starting to get a handle on how Grimmjow ticks.

Grimmjow isn't going to kill him. He doesn't consider Ichigo enough of a threat for that. Even after Ichigo's escaped more times than anyone is still counting, beat the ever-living hell out of Grimmjow's men—_how many times now?—_ and just been a general nuisance in the man's life, Grimmjow still thinks of him as a toy. Something to play with until he's bored again.

Sometimes, Ichigo hates the bastard. Sometimes, he thinks he could kill him, no problem.

But then, there's times like now, when Ichigo isn't sure he was ever even alive before meeting this man.

That piercing blue gaze scrapes down him and he nearly shivers, knows Grimmjow's thinking of throwing him on one of the poorly cleaned tables and making him beg in ways that have nothing to do with embedding a bullet into his brain.

He could play into that, he's sure, but instead Ichigo sighs like he's uninterested or like he just doesn't care that there's a thick and persuasive Beretta M9 pressed into his forehead hard enough to leave a mark.

"Hurry up already, asshole. My knees are getting sore."

.

.

_Five weeks ago._

_._

To him, it happened in slow motion.

As unexpected as the lead taking a bullet in an action flick. It caught his chest. Dead center. Then sticky, red liquid was seeping through his shirt in an expanding, imperfect stain.

His eyes flicked up to the faces of the friends surrounding him in a circle.

Shock engraved every detail into his brain.

Renji's jaw hung open at a comic angle.

Ishida's eyes widened, glasses sliding down his nose.

Keigo giggled.

Inoue's hand covered her mouth.

Chad blinked.

Rukia rolled her eyes.

"Fool. Why were you standing in the way of my arm?"

He gaped at her. It took a long second to form words around his indignant outrage. "What the hell, Rukia?"

Ichigo mopped at the drink seeping into his favorite henley with his hands, gathering icy slush and dumping it onto the table. It smelled like some tropical fruit mix he couldn't place and holy shit, it was cold.

With a huff, he angled her a fixed glare. "I'm sitting in the same place I've been sitting all night. Look at where you're slinging your arms next time. What the fuck were you even doing?"

She shrugged and he blew out a breath.

There was no reason to yell. The little disaster was too tipsy to realize she'd just flung most of her drink over him.

And he'd _liked_ this shirt.

He clicked his tongue, scowling as he stood. His friends made up a huge, well-loved, chunk of his life, but sometimes he needed a break.

"I'm going to clean up."

Ignoring the protests that followed behind him, he did his best not to glower over his shoulder as he picked a path through the edge of the dance floor.

_Do I look like I'm having a good time? Give it a rest already._

He had no idea why he couldn't just relax. He'd tried to smile, tried to laugh. But all he could think was that maybe if he ran now, he could save himself the embarrassment of being asked to leave when their little gathering got out of hand.

What a headache.

Four hours earlier, when Renji was doing his best to sell Ichigo on this all-encompassing tribulation of a birthday party, Ichigo's first response had been _hell-fucking-no_. Not after the last time. Not after _any_ time they'd all gone out together. But with the hour of needling, followed by all of his closest friends showing up anyway, it was either agree or let his sensibly sized apartment be turned into a celebratory war zone.

He was still convinced it'd been the best choice. Experience taught him trying to convince his landlord a huge burn stain in the middle of the carpet shouldn't come out of his deposit, was a losing battle.

The crowd closed around him and he slowed some, taking in the club they'd dragged him to with mixed feelings.

Loud music sounded like it thumped straight out of the walls— everything vibrating with thick, low tones that shook his internal organs. The place was dim and oppressive, stuffed full of swaying bodies. Lights flashed from the ceiling several stories above, illuminating a sea of heads in a white then blue glow, and if he looked up from the edge of the floor, he could see the VIP areas and bored looking faces staring down over the rails.

He liked his friends. Would _die_ for his friends. But all the loudness, bizarre habits, and _property damage_ wore heavy on his nerves after longtime exposure. Getting a few minutes alone wasn't much to ask.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned against the wall to wait at the end of the bathroom's too-damn-long line. At least, until the black velvet rope that blocked off the punched-steel staircase leading up to the floor above caught his notice. His eyes cut over to the impatient queue waiting for the lavatory. _They have this many people waiting, and there's probably ten private bathrooms upstairs... _Fuck that.

Social conventions could be damned. So could the architect that scribbled the building together in the first place for all he cared, _and_ the irresponsible party that ran it.

He pushed away from the wall and ducked under the rope. Annoyed voices rose up after him, but he ignored them for the second time that night. He really didn't care if he got tossed out at this point anyway. He might even be grateful.

.

.

Grimmjow watched the kid's scowl darken as he moved further from his table.

The look had a dark edge to it he preferred over the fake smiling nonsense the kid had been spreading on since the group sat down. Or at least until the little, dark-haired time bomb on the guy's left had covered him in daiquiri and rum.

He tilted his head and considered the youth, eyes sliding from orange hair to the tight set of his jaw, then down the line of his throat to where corded shoulders disappeared inside the clinging, black shirt.

The resemblance was unnerving. They even dressed the same. _Moved the same._

But the smile was wrong.

This wasn't who he was looking for.

His fist curled tighter around his glass where it hung two stories above the shifting dance floor. People below crawled over each other, drawn to the dark club like oversexed cockroaches. So much heat and restless energy, usually it was something he liked. It was something _he_ had liked. Tonight, it grated on his nerves and made him want to claw out of his skin just to get out of the place.

Grimmjow should've known it wouldn't be him.

The kid he was looking for wasn't stupid enough to show up any place Grimmjow owned. Dye job or not. Every thug and legitimate employee on his payroll were falling over each other— and had been for weeks— trying to be the one to hand over who he was paying for.

He waved Edrad off, barely watching from the corner of his eye as he argued it out with the tall, thin girl that'd brought the boy to their attention. She brandished a manicure that looked more like knives in Edrad's face, but a second later, his man had caught her hand and brought it to the outline of the gun strapped under his jacket. She'd left quickly and quietly after that.

The disheveled, orange head disappeared a moment later, camouflaged by a sea of equally bright outfits and dyed tresses.

"Ah, Grimmjow-kun, what a scary look."

His nose wrinkled in distaste at the intruding voice. "Fuck off. I'm not in the mood."

The blonde man hummed. "So I see. Word has it, you're missing your young—"

The crystalline splitting of glass only just reached him over the blood rushing through his ears. Then he had Urahara by the face, pushing him over the railing.

The older man's wiry body bowed back over the guard, held by Grimmjow's hand, and he made gratifying sounds that did nothing to ease Grimmjow's temper. Hanging him over the crowd, Grimmjow ignored the reflexive wriggling and grappling for a hold on his arm. All he had to do was let go. It wouldn't take more than that to make the irritating, _nosy_ bastard a memory.

Blood buzzed under his skin like electricity.

Grimmjow could already see the body falling through empty air. The crowd below screaming and parting.

Except, offing their neutral party during negotiations wasn't anything short of begging for one of Aizen's infamous, if not _melodramatic_ executions. The thought alone both fed and stalled his rage. Urahara should know to keep his mouth shut. But the fact that he _should know_ and hadn't… He wasn't a stupid man. He had something to say.

Inch by inch, Grimmjow loosened his grip until the lucky bastard slid back over the side. He could feel every knot of spine that rasped across the guardrail. Even curious, he hoped it hurt like a bitch later. A good reminder of how close Urahara had come to never opening that annoying hole in his face again.

Hand still around his jaw, he leaned in. "I've never given a shit enough about anything to miss it, and I sure as fuck didn't start for that piece of gutter trash."

The blonde took a choked breath when Grimmjow released him and backed away, rasping out words that sounded something like, "My mistake," but just came out a gasping wheeze.

Grimmjow could find him again later. There were too many eyes here.

The muted patter of something striking the ground by his foot pulled at his attention. The glass was still in his hand. Only now, a fractured web of cracks crisscrossed the surface, a shard biting into the pad of his thumb.

"Jaegerjaquez-sama. The meeting is reopened."

His eyes panned over Urahara's retreating shoulder to Shawlong. He barely saw him. Still riding the lethal edge of his temper, the world was in varying shades of red.

"Your hand is bleeding."

Grimmjow thunked the glass on a nearby table, looking for a napkin he didn't see. "No shit. The fuck's the point of this anyway? We all wanna blow each other's guts out and everyone knows it."

Shawlong tensed.

"Grimmjow," the composed voice started from behind him, "It's poor conduct to discuss business outside of closed doors. And it seems you're injured. Again."

_Shit._

His teeth clenched to keep the curse locked in his mouth, and he turned just enough to see Aizen standing behind him. All polished, mahogany tresses over pleasant features. One strand hung longer than the others, falling over his forehead. Grimmjow wanted to rip it off.

Injured...? It was a cut. A cut could happen with paper. Or a sharp plastic. He wanted to show Aizen the difference between a cut and a real wound so bad his fingers ached.

His lip fought a curl. "S'fine. Cheap glass."

Aizen shook his head.

"I take good care of my people, Grimmjow. And you _are_ my people, aren't you? I have a personal physician, I'm only too happy to call him."

Grimmjow seeing a fucking doctor for a cut finger— _He'd be a joke._ Less than that. The weak didn't live long in their world. People that weren't _feared_ didn't last long.

Asshole. Fucking son of a bitch and his veiled threats. He hoped someone put that bullet in his head. Grimmjow didn't even care if it was _him_. _That_ was how much he hated the manipulative fuck. He was shaking just to keep his hand from moving against his will to find a weapon, only just managing to bite out something about washing it.

Then he was moving through a burning haze.

He left down the stairs, exited to the level below just to put extra space between him and the man that dangled his life on a string as if it were a kid's game.

Employer or not, he hated Aizen. Hated him like he'd never hated anything. Not the pang of hunger in the dead of winter or the feel of a barrel resting at the back of his neck. Not even losing matched, because every single day he spent under the man's thumb felt like losing.

His pulse pounded inside his head, the muscles in his hands and forearms curled tight under skin.

The second level wasn't near as crowded as the first, but people parted around him all the same. Some because they recognized him, some because he must've looked as close to killing as he felt. There was a couple crushing powder at a table far from the rails. A handful of girls dancing and grinding together. In the back corner, one of Gin's men had his arms resting on the top of a sofa while a head bobbed into sight then out again.

All of it was on the sidelines. Old news. Boring. Hard to believe there'd been a time when he'd thought having it all at his fingertips made him powerful.

There was no such thing as _powerful_ when you worked for Aizen, because the bastard held it all.

He cut toward the men's room sign. His private bathrooms were on the top floor, but getting away from Aizen before he snapped was equivalent to survival.

His cell vibrated and he snatched it out of his pocket, glancing down, wondering if it was a response to one of the million and a half threatening messages he'd left his runaway bitch as he threw open the bathroom door.

Only, it bounced off something.

Or someone.

He snarled. "Fuckin' watch it."

The message was from Shawlong. They were going back in. He stuffed the phone back inside his pocket.

"You fucking watch it, asshole."

His foot stuck to the floor halfway to the sink. The lash of adrenaline flashed through his system as potent and electrifying as any drug. This was exactly what he needed, some senseless punk, some badass wannabe to wreck beyond repair so he could lose some pent frustration.

His head tipped back as he smirked at nothing, and then turned to give the owner of that voice an appraising look.

It was the kid. The scowling brat from earlier.

Angry brown eyes sparked like shards of amber from under hair a few shades brighter than copper. The strange coloring stood out more in the fluorescent lighting, stark enough to be disorienting for a half second.

This close, the similarity knocked the air out of him.

_The fuck?_

It wasn't like him to be thrown off so many times in close succession.

Taking a step forward, he reclaimed his grin, emphasizing the height difference. The size difference. "Maybe you didn't hear me, I said to watch the fuck out."

"And I said no."

The orange scowl deepened, but the kid didn't step away or scramble to take the words back and something about that had Grimmjow's stomach tightening in ways that didn't have shit to do with busting a smart-mouthed brat's head open on a bathroom sink.

His eyes skimmed down the lines of the close-fitting top that did nothing to hide the body under it. The tight black shirt was gone, only a loose tank hung from his shoulders, leaving a stretch of exposed golden skin around his neck and shoulders. Faded jeans hugged low on lean hips.

His hands itched to slide them lower.

The kid wasn't bad looking.

Too bad he didn't have time for a side project the way Aizen was breathing down his dick. And even if he had, it'd send the wrong message to keep a replacement fuck that could've been a carbon copy of his last.

Then again, he also couldn't let the brat walk out after a direct challenge like that.

Grimmjow grinned. "You're lucky, kid. I don't have time to waste killing you just now."

.

.

Ichigo fought a losing battle not to roll his eyes.

"Am I supposed to be impressed by that?"

A strong hand fisted into the thin cloth at his collar.

The bastard was fast, any quicker and Ichigo wouldn't have seen him move. As it was, he hardly managed to keep his head from cracking on the tile. His shoulders hit the hard surface and Ichigo hissed a sharp breath, not sure if it was from the suddenness or the icy wall on his back.

He glared up into a grinning face and reigned in his irritation.

One more aggressive move like that, and he was going to break something on this guy. Preferably the arm keeping him pinned and then that stupid grin. He said nothing as the man appraised his body without so much as being subtle about it.

He stepped closer, low voice tickling Ichigo's ear. "I said I don't have time to kill you. Not that I don't have time to keep ya from walking out in one piece, so don't push me."

He scoffed. "_You_ hit _me_."

"It's a rough world, kid."

The bastard pulled his head back and gave another blinding grin, flashing perfect, white teeth.

Ichigo could only stare. There wasn't even any reason behind that logic.

Was this guy coming on to him or picking a fight? He honestly couldn't tell. "Are you high?"

The answering laugh made his back tense further and his toes curl in his shoes. The looks he was getting might've been flattering if this guy didn't also need to be committed.

For just a second, he let his eyes own eyes slide down the man's form.

A strong jaw, hard shoulders over a lithe frame, enough muscle to hold him without apparent effort, chaotic, blue hair in a shade Ichigo couldn't put a name to straightaway—

Cerulean eyes gleamed and Ichigo flushed, twisting his face away.

"Like that?"

"No," he growled. "I'm not into dangerous assholes."

A laugh. "I haven't shown ya dangerous, brat."

"And I don't like being called brat."

"Then what's your name, _kid_?"

"Fuck you."

"I like that. It suits you." He considered Ichigo a long moment. "What're ya doin' tonight?"

Ichigo blinked, edging back before he remembered the wall. How had the conversation turned that fast?

Did that line ever even work?

"Not what you're hoping."

And no, he wasn't entertaining the idea. It wasn't even an option. Ichigo wasn't the type for a one-night stand or an any-night stand for that matter.

"Yeah? And why not?" The blue haired male leaned closer and breathed. "You smell good."

That tone of voice made his bones weak, but Ichigo refused to show it. If that was meant as a joke, it was a bad one.

"You stare at me all night, hit me with a door, threaten to kill me, and then think I'd still be interested in going out with you?"

This guy was trouble. Really bad trouble. The kind that might end with a night in jail or a life sentence. And worse, Ichigo was fighting hard not to find it appealing. And the bastard didn't even _try_ to deny that he'd been watching him.

"Not going out. Fucking." He drew it out like Ichigo was too stupid to get it at regular speed. "You're bored out of your mind with those friends of yours anyway."

Ichigo frowned. Where had that come from?

He hesitated. "I'm not. And the answer is no."

"Why?"

"Because I don't like the way you look at me."

The smirk he got was lopsided. "And how do I look at you?"

"Like you're thinking of every possible point of exit to remove my liver."

The guy laughed, a deep bark that made Ichigo blink and frown harder. That comment was intended to be an insult, and the guy didn't seem like an idiot.

"Grimmjow. That's the name, kid, and if I intended to make money off you, there are easier ways."

Ichigo's fist clenched.

This guy was… He didn't have words. Everything he said made Ichigo want to hit him. _And still_, the asshole was devastatingly attractive. Time to go.

"Pass."

Catching the hand still tangled in his shirt, he twisted.

There was no howl of pain, only a hitched curse as the male was forced to move the way Ichigo wanted. He slipped under the opposite arm and released the hold, stopping just short of the exit and telling himself he wasn't running— only to be shoved face first into the closed door.

He snarled at the weight pressing against his back and the hand that gripped his hair.

What a fucking persistent bastard…

Ichigo didn't get it. He'd had insistent pursuers, but never someone that couldn't take no for an answer— didn't even seem to know what the word meant. There wasn't any way he was getting out of this without some maneuvering. Hopefully this idiot was too stoned to notice.

He was saying something, but Ichigo cut him off.

"Grimmjow, right? You really want to fuck me?" he breathed.

There was a pause, the hard chest at his back reverberating with a thoughtful sound. A hand skimmed down Ichigo's waist and he sucked in a breath when a thousand tiny thunderbolts fluttered through his stomach.

"I like the way ya play kid, but don't fucking tease."

He bit his lip and cursed himself as the hand went lower, and gasped out, "Not here."

"Does it matter?"

"Yeah. It does. I'm not fucking in a bathroom."

The male at his back blew an amused breath and whipped him around. He braced a hand on the door behind Ichigo's head and pinned him with that penetrating, blue gaze. "I'm not a nice kinda guy, but I'll put up with this shit if you make it worth it. But cross me and I'll fucking kill you, got it?"

When Ichigo nodded, nonplused, he lifted a finger and twitched it to bring Ichigo a step closer. Grimmjow didn't need to say what he wanted for Ichigo to understand.

Pulling his lower lip between his teeth, he let it drag out before rising up on his toes to press his mouth into Grimmjow's.

Grimmjow stiffened.

Ichigo couldn't have missed it and thought to pull back, but Grimmjow snorted, tilting his head and opening to allow Ichigo entrance.

He sucked in a breath at the contact of his tongue brushing along Grimmjow's. For some reason, he hadn't expected any part of this man to be as soft as that tongue was. The hair lifted on the back of his neck and arms as a fine tremor started in his limbs. Just who the hell _was_ this guy? Grimmjow tasted like alcohol, something twangy and sharp. It made Ichigo's mouth tingle.

Pressing in closer, he tried for that tongue again, fingers threading into the longer stands of hair at the back of Grimmjow's neck without Ichigo being certain how they got there. He had no idea how something so simple had gone straight to his blood and his head and his dick. His body was humming with fresh energy. His other hand pushed up Grimmjow's chest, just starting to curl into fabric when he felt it— the air puffing across his cheek, the low chuckle.

With a light frown, he pulled back, muddled and a little kiss drugged, licking his lips and wondering if kisses were supposed to be like that, because Ichigo had sure as fuck never felt anything like it… Only, he must've taken it too far, because Grimmjow was… laughing at him. _Laughing_.

_He was laughing. What the fuck? _

Grimmjow grinned, lifting a thumb to swipe it across Ichigo's bottom lip before bringing it back to his mouth to taste.

"Yeah, that was great. Now, kiss my dick, dumbass."

Ichigo blinked, blinked again and then turned red when he realized what Grimmjow had actually been asking for in the first place.

Humiliated, he jerked his knee up into Grimmjow's gut. It was a bitch move, but so was cornering someone in the bathroom and pressuring them for sex. And now that the contact was broken, he could honestly say that he was a little terrified of whatever that had been between them and had no desire to repeat it.

Shoving the larger body off, he yanked open the door, nearly barreling into a silver haired man as he flew through it. Sidestepping, he darted straight for the back stair that let him up. And he _wasn't_ running. He was just… leaving the bathroom quickly and before that psycho could pull him back in and either beat him or fuck him.

Probably beat him, but with the blood still pumping low in his stomach, Ichigo's mind wasn't exactly working on logic.

A shiver slipped down his spine as he took the steps and moved back into the crowd. He tore toward his table. Grimmjow wouldn't follow him all the way back, would he?

Ice water slid into his stomach and he turned to look over his shoulder.

He didn't see him—No, wait. There. On the second floor, following after the silver haired guy Ichigo had nearly plowed down, heading to the upper levels. The levels that implied money or influence. Maybe that was why Grimmjow had such a hard time hearing the word no.

Ichigo shook his head.

"Yo, Ichigo, you get lost?" Renji blinked up at him, gaze focusing for a second. "Somethin' wrong? You look… I dunno. Freaked."

Glancing back again, he slid into his chair and looked around the table. A dozen faces in various degrees of inebriation looked back. Some of them hadn't even been there when he'd left. He brushed it off with a shake of his head, and then made a disgruntled noise when Keigo put another round of drinks on his tab.

"When the hell did I get a tab? I haven't even drank anything."

"I know, bud. You better get started. This is your party, right?"

Ichigo glared. "Well, it was supposed to be."

Was he magnetic in some way that attracted creepy weirdoes and closet drunks?

Someone batted at him. If batted meant slamming a tiny knuckled fist into his shoulder with the force of a miniature atom bomb.

He looked down at Rukia and raised a brow. "Geez, I'm going to need that arm after tonight. Could you try not to pulverize it?"

She fixed her violet tinged eyes at him and lifted a package until it rested under his nose. "I got you something."

He frowned and took the small, brightly wrapped gift. Slime couldn't have felt lower as he tore open a corner, wishing he hadn't bitten her head off. "You didn't have to do that, Rukia. It's not like I got you anything for…" He blinked and held it up. "_How to Reconcile the Loss of a Loved One_." He squinted. "You got me a self-help book? Are you dysfunctional? What kind of present is—?"

Renji draped himself across his back to whisper into his ear as quiet as a foghorn. "Just take the damn present, man. You don't want to piss her off again."

Renji laughed, elbowing over the pyramid of shot glasses beside him.

Ichigo sighed. "Renji, give me your keys."

It figured he would end up the designated driver at his own party.

Maybe he should've taken Grimmjow up on that offer after all.

.

.

Two hours later, he was shoving his friends into cabs.

He bundling Keigo and Ikkaku in first. Then Tatsuki and her girlfriend. Then someone he didn't even know. He slammed the door on the guy's face when he asked to borrow money.

Rukia stopped him with a hand clutching his jacket when he tried to help her. Her eyes were the odd tone of serious she took sometimes that scared the hell out of him. "Read the book, Ichigo. It wasn't a joke. It helped me after my sister—"

He nodded and disengaged her arm to start the process of packing her inside the car. "I'm fine, Rukia. You know that."

Renji leaned forward from the other side. "Don't argue, man. Just take the advice. We just want what's best for you."

"Thanks, dad." He scowled. "Is there a reason you people take such an unnatural interest in my life? Try focusing on yourselves for once." Turning, he pinned Ishida and Inoue with a look. "You two have something to say?"

Inoue gave a strained smile and Ichigo felt like shit. Ishida pushed his glasses up with a disgusted breath, eyes closed. His arm tightened around her shoulders.

"You're a pig, Kurosaki."

_I know I am. I know._

Rukia got hold of his arm again and he sighed. Awesome. His friends all thought he was a basket case. Maybe he was. The only plus of the situation was that they all knew from personal experience.

But the chances of her remembering any of this in the morning were low, so why not?

"Alright, I'll do it. Just get in the car."

A few seconds later, he had her stuffed inside, and the cab launched away and the next pulled up. He opened the door, handing Inoue down gently and unceremoniously shoving Ishida's ass inside with his foot.

Ishida gave a muffled "umph," glaring murder back before giving up on finding the right ends of the buckles. He knotted the two opposite belts together before snuggling down beside Inoue with an obvious air of superiority.

"Yeah, you sure showed me, dumbass. I'm gonna remind you about that every day for a month," he scoffed under his breath as the vehicle pulled away. "Idiot."

Glancing back at Chad, he managed a half smile.

"You want a cab too?"

"I don't mind the walk." Chad paused then remembered that he'd been speaking. "My apartment isn't far."

Ichigo snorted. Chad rarely drank. It was easier to forgive. He also hardly ever gave Ichigo a hard time, drunk or not. And _that_ made almost anything he did ten times more likeable.

"Whatever you think. Don't get hit by a car."

He got a grunt back. "Happy Birthday, Ichigo. Careful on your way home."

Frowning, he turned back toward the nearly empty parking lot to find Renji's bike, walking the opposite direction.

Who said he was going home? It _was_ his birthday, wasn't it?

Slumping, he passed a row of parking spaces.

Was he really that boring and predictable? Hard to believe he'd once had a reputation for being a troublemaker. When had he decided to get so… stable? He might've written it off as part of growing up, except most of his friends were a year or two older than him and they still acted like teenagers.

The bike was sitting under a streetlamp around the side. Pulling the helmet from the handle, he stuffed the book into the compartment on the back.

His eyes darted away from the happy family on the cover.

He hated this. He hated this person he was.

It reminded him of the bored faces from the VIP floor.

That's how he felt. Like he was standing on the sidelines of his own life, watching everyone else enjoy it more than him. It was a struggle that never seemed to stop. If he didn't keep moving forward, he slid back. And there were too many ghosts in his past for him to be all right living his life in reverse.

So here he was, out and celebrating. Determined to do better, or at least fake it enough that no one could tell the difference.

And he wasn't even managing that.

So why was he bothering?

.

.

Grimmjow slammed the back door behind him, his skin burning with repressed anger. He fished out a cigarette and flipped open his lighter, igniting the end before taking a long drag and tilting his head back to let it out.

Wasn't what he wanted, but it still felt damn good.

Rounding the back fence, he snarled at whoever the fuck was stupid enough to touch his paint job before the sinewy cut of body and unmistakable hair spikey registered.

The kid was leaning against one side, arms crossed and head tilted back to watch the moon.

A grin worked over his mouth as he crossed the lot and stepped close enough for his stalker to notice him.

The kid turned, pushing off his car. He looked nervous and that suited Grimmjow fine. Smart brat. He should be uneasy. He was dealing with a predator. And after the trouble he'd been, a quick fuck in the back of a car wouldn't cut it.

Grimmjow didn't take his eyes off him as he pulled his keys from his pocket and unlocked the car. Then he slid into the driver's seat and started it.

The passenger side opened and closed. The kid's breath huffed into a cloud in front of him and he rubbed his palms over his legs.

Grimmjow shook his head. He shouldn't take this kid home, but he shouldn't do a lot of things. In the end, Grimmjow just did whatever the fuck he wanted. Everyone knew that.

Flicking his cigarette out the window, he smirked, shifted into drive and pulled out of the parking lot.

.

.

Thank you for reading :) Please review.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Switchblade Heart

Warnings: Language, smut.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Authorial Notice:

It's been quite a while, I know. On the plus side, I'm hoping this story goes a lot faster now, since this was the chapter I was hung up on, and I'm about six chapters ahead. We'll see, but I'd really, really like to finish this one c':

.

.

The car was sleek, but foreign. He couldn't place it. It looked expensive though, and when Ichigo slid into the passenger seat, it felt like he was sitting on the ground.

Cold leather bit into his skin and he took a sharp breath.

A moment later, they were pulling out of the parking lot and he fought the urge to hang on. By the time, they reached the expressway, the driving seemed to even out and he relaxed. Maybe he should've wondered where they were going, but he didn't ask. If anything happened, he was more than capable of taking care of himself.

"How'd ya know which car was mine?"

He blew out a breath. "Easy. It was the flashiest thing in the parking lot."

Grimmjow turned and grinned at him. "You don't even know me."

Ichigo's eyes flicked to his hair. "It was an educated guess. And I was right."

There was a pause while Grimmjow considered him. Or he thought that's what Grimmjow was doing.

"Name."

Ichigo glanced over then back out the side window. "Kurosaki."

"There a given name to go with that?"

"No."

Grimmjow snorted. "Kurosaki, it is."

They drove in silence until Grimmjow exited the highway in Northern Tokyo. The engine growled then purred as the car rolled to a stop at the light. Ichigo fought a case of nerves that threatened to have him throw open the door and make a break for it. What was he doing? Letting some stranger take him home… This wasn't like him.

Although, he supposed that was the point.

Grimmjow's hands twitched on the steering wheel, moving like he was having trouble holding still and Ichigo was forced to acknowledge his earlier suspicion that he was on something. Never mind that Ichigo wasn't even anyone he knew, and yet he was taking him home to fuck. But that was normal for some people, he guessed.

It should've been disgusted him.

But he couldn't deny there was— He didn't know what to call it. Chemistry. Some sort of magnetism. Grimmjow was attractive, but Ichigo didn't think it had anything to do with looks. Everything about Grimmjow screamed 'danger' in big flashing letters, yet here they were.

He blew out another breath. This couldn't be healthy behavior.

Ichigo slid lower in his seat and tore his eyes free to go back to staring out the window.

Rukia was right, he needed help.

They pulled up to a house and Ichigo traced the elegant lines of the three-story building up to the traditional curved roof. It was impressive in its own way, Grimmjow clearly had money, but Ichigo's stomach was wavering too hard for him to appreciate it even if he had cared for things like that and he didn't.

His door opened and he started before standing from the car and following.

Grimmjow unlocked the house and Ichigo went in after him, trailing from the foyer into a larger living space.

He'd always found it strange entering someone else's living space for the first time, but this was surreal. The inside was a cross between a magazine cover and a frat house. Designer everything in cold modern lines. The furniture looked expensive, matching suites and tables, floor length draperies, two couches and several loveseats, a handful of lounging chairs artfully arranged. But an empty pizza box rested on a glass-topped coffee table with a fragmented crack that circled out from the edge. Cups and glasses littered various surfaces. Beer and liquor bottles. A handful of files that looked as out of place as everything else.

The house was used, but felt empty all the same.

He frowned, looking around for any other signs of life and finding nothing. The guy obviously had money, but it seemed to be handled in a careless way, like it'd been inherited or it wasn't his.

Ichigo shifted where he stood. "What do you do?"

Grimmjow glanced over without answering. He crossed the room to pick up a bottle sitting beside a lamp and twisted it open. Ichigo supposed that meant it was none of his business and went back to looking around.

"Want a drink? You're legal now, right?"

So he had been watching them.

Ichigo stopped his inspection, turning to look back, but didn't say anything. After all, Grimmjow hadn't answered his question.

Grimmjow shrugged a shoulder. He poured clear amber liquid into two glass tumblers. Sitting one beside Ichigo, he downed his own in one swallow, refilling it before beckoning Ichigo toward the staircase.

Ichigo followed, more curious than he should be about this person that seemed to contradict himself at every turn.

Grimmjow reached the top and disappeared through a door at the end of the hall. Light spilled out in a slanted rectangle, and as Ichigo rounded the frame, a hand caught his wrist, pulling him inside. The door slammed shut and he was pressed back into the wood.

Warm breath washed over his neck and he shuddered. The same inveigling energy from before when they'd kissed in the bathroom flared through his skin and seeped into his bones.

"Don't get cold feet on me now, Kurosaki."

"I wasn't—"

Grimmjow rasped teeth over the skin of his throat and he forgot the argument he'd been about to make.

"You've been thinking it since you got in the car. And…" He pulled back enough to pin Ichigo with eyes that managed to be hot and cold at the same time. Searing, like dry ice. "You just look like a runner to me."

Ichigo only half consciously brought a hand up to touch the place those teeth had scraped with a frown. "What's the matter with you?"

Grimmjow flashed another predatory smile, releasing him. He crossed the room and plucked something off the dresser Ichigo couldn't see, popped some light-colored tabs into his mouth, and tossed it back with another swig of his glass. "Been told it's a lotta things."

No doubts now, Ichigo had been right about him being on something.

He shifted and wiped damp palms on his jeans, looking around. Anything to keep his eyes off Grimmjow. Which was stupid, because obviously, he'd come to have his eyes on Grimmjow. Among other things.

This room actually did seem lived in. It wasn't filthy. The carpets were clean. There didn't seem to be much dust. Clothes and trash randomly decorated surfaces, but it wasn't even as bad as Renji's dorm room.

Grimmjow was giving him a strange look when Ichigo's attention came back to him, and Ichigo wondered how often the man had people in his personal space. Or maybe he was just offended that Ichigo was so openly sizing it up.

"What?" Ichigo snapped, agitation and nerves finally getting the better of him.

Grimmjow's eyes narrowed, but he shook his head. "Nothin'. You look like someone."

"Well, that's creepy."

Grimmjow snorted, moving back toward him. "Least you've got spine."

He tugged Ichigo forward by the shirt and took his mouth without more warning than that and Ichigo sucked in a quick breath.

He was really doing this…

Another series of nerves rolled under his skin, chasing chills in a never-ending circle as Grimmjow pushed closer, backing him into a dresser. Ichigo could taste the alcohol on his tongue and he gasped in spite of himself as a hand eased its way under his shirt. It pressed into the lean muscle of his stomach before testing the firmness of flesh over a hip. Then it slid lower, over the growing length in his jeans.

Ichigo nearly groaned against Grimmjow's mouth then panted for breath when the kiss broke, and Grimmjow gave him a little shove back into the dresser.

"Who the fuck are you?"

Ichigo scrambled to string two thoughts together. His breath hitched as he grappled for purchase on the polished surface behind him. Was this supposed to be foreplay, because he wasn't getting it.

"What?"

"If you're playing me, they won't ever find your body."

Ichigo released a trapped breath, shaking his head, because he couldn't even process this newest deranged quirk, since his body was deciding to be so uncooperative with his brain.

As if he needed more proof this guy was unstable.

"What… What the hell? I didn't— I don't want anything from you."

There was a long moment where Grimmjow studied him, one eye then the other until he seemed satisfied.

"Hm." His hand went back to Ichigo's pants and he rasped his nails across the fabric. "I wouldn't say you don't want anything."

He grit his teeth.

"Okay, I want _that_, but that's all I want. Wanted," he corrected. "Get off me."

Something in Grimmjow's eyes shifted, sharpened, and fingers tightened around his length.

Ichigo's throat closed and his heart pitched in his chest. The angry thoughts he was working so hard to put together twisted until there was nothing but the awareness of his pulse beating in Grimmjow's hand and he tried not to moan openly.

"Settle your dick down, I believe you." He leaned in and traced Ichigo's throat out with teeth. "Strip."

Ichigo blinked his eyes open. When had he even closed them?

Strip. Just like that. What an_ asshole_.

No way was Ichigo just going to… to…

His pulse skipped when he glimpsed tanned skin as the other male moved away, backing toward the bed, pulling his own clothes off without hesitation or shame. Grimmjow's eyes stayed fixed to Ichigo's face with a smirk as if he were enjoying his discomfort. Or more like daring him to join. _Such a bastard._

That was all it took though. That hint of challenge. He reached up to tug his own shirt over his head. His pants slid off next. Even if it'd been a long time, he wasn't some innocent, and he didn't much care what Grimmjow thought of his body either.

As for Grimmjow, he had a build most athletes spent years of hardcore gym time to shape. Ichigo couldn't help his gaze travelling down, reluctantly admiring, following the smooth contraction of muscle as it moved, then lower to where a half-hardened erection brushed against a thigh with every step.

His mouth went dry as he took a step closer without thought, eyes flicking back to Grimmjow's face.

He wanted to touch him. Itched for warm skin under his fingers

Ichigo's hand came up, slow and steady, to brush along the flat expanse of stomach, but Grimmjow caught and pulled it away, used it to haul him near enough to catch his mouth again with teeth before turning to back Ichigo onto the bed.

Ichigo sat when the frame hit his legs, still trying to catch his breath, letting himself be pushed flat with a slight shiver.

Grimmjow planned to take charge, but he had already assumed as much. Hands kneaded his sides, hips, then clamped down to half scoot, half toss him further onto the mattress. They spread his legs so Grimmjow could crawl between them.

Ichigo felt hard flesh trail against his leg, leaving a wet path and he shuddered.

Grimmjow wasn't being exceptionally gentle, but Ichigo wasn't looking for gentle.

Scalding eyes travelled down his stomach, a large, rough hand following. Grimmjow brushed a thumb over a small patch of skin on Ichigo's stomach, squinting as if looking for something before shaking his head.

He dipped a touch lower, surprising Ichigo when his tongue lapped at his navel then lower, flicking against the underside of his length, and the brief touches of wet warmth had his hips lifting with a moan, curving his spine from the bed. He hadn't expected that.

Grimmjow gave a satisfied rumble. "Turn over."

Ichigo blinked, head moving to stare down his stomach at the blue-haired prick.

Only, Grimmjow was already off the bed, picking through the contents of his disheveled dresser. Above his right hip, near the small of his back was a large, anglicized six in black or maybe dark blue ink. He couldn't tell.

Grimmjow returned with a clear bottle.

Ichigo eyed it. "Does everyone always do what you say?"

Grimmjow flicked the cap, coating his fingers before tossing it aside again with a smirk.

Ichigo rolled onto his stomach. At least then, he didn't have to watch.

It was still harder than it should've been. He didn't think Grimmjow was the type anyone wanted so close and out of sight.

Hands moved down his back, his spine, a thumb tracing along his tailbone, following a path lower to brush across his entrance. It drew a shudder all the way from his scalp to his curled toes and back to where Grimmjow circled.

Ichigo closed his eyes and dropped his head forward to rest on the mattress, gasping a low moan when his throat finally decided to work again. A finger pressed in deep without warning and he ground his teeth, torn between shuddering again and pitching a fit. But Grimmjow knew what he was doing, just like Ichigo had expected and so he kept his mouth shut. When a second finger worked in to join the first, they found the cluster of nerves inside easily, pressed and rolled, and Ichigo nearly jolted off the bed.

A strong hand between his shoulder blades stopped him, pushed him down flat and constrained him to the bed.

He choked back something that might've been a cross between a whine and a moan if he'd voiced it, and squeezed his eyes back shut.

A snort. "Not exactly vocal, are you?"

He gasped as fingers entered him again, stretching further than before and he knew Grimmjow had added another finger. He clamped teeth down on his lip. "_Fuck… Fuck you.._."

There was a chuckle and Grimmjow bowed over his back, working into him until he was as deep as he could go and satisfied before withdrawing.

Ichigo panted but held himself still for what came next, craved it, even as he tried to focus on the heat covering his back and not how much being taken by someone so large was likely to hurt, wished he'd drank that alcohol. But he made a quiet, broken sound when he felt Grimmjow's slick, coated head brush him, press against his entrance until Ichigo's body gave way.

His fingers curled into the bedding, spine arching at the slow slide in, a pressure that bordered pain, but it was too good to stop. He grit out a helpless sound of pleasure and frustration that turned into a low moan when Grimmjow's hips and stomach finally pressed against him, feeling the tense, hard muscle behind him and something like relief flooding his limbs.

It didn't last long, barely longer than it took Grimmjow to give a satisfied grunt and adjust his angle before withdrawing to thrust deeper, sliding a hand up Ichigo's back, his neck, tangling in his hair, as if surveying new territory.

The pace was fast and hard. Exactly what his body had been craving. Grimmjow's hips snapping against his ass until Ichigo was hardly aware of the room around him. Hardly aware he was in a stranger's house. Too intense heat stabbed through his veins with every pulse, knotting in his gut.

Without warning, the muscles over him surged with renewed force and Grimmjow slammed forward with enough power that Ichigo groaned at the mingled pain and fierce pleasure.

He could feel teeth against his back, digging deep into straining muscle.

But it was good— felt _indescribable_.

The strong body straining against his, inside him, hitting that spot that had light bursting behind his eyes with every incursion. Grimmjow's hands ran over his skin, gripped his hips tighter, yanking him back and making Ichigo stutter out stunned cry.

And Grimmjow didn't let up. He'd found Ichigo's weakness and seemed content to nail him through the sheet-tangled, pillow-topped mattress with it.

The heat of it constricted around him, wrapping tight, twisting and rolling, furious waves of searing want tumbling over each other one after the next. He was dizzy with it. With the too intense need. One sensation disappeared into the next and was gone just as fast. And the only thing solid and definite was the hard body pressing his down.

Grimmjow wound his hands tighter around lean hips, hooked fingers into the curve of them to press the pressure point until Ichigo bucked— yelped out a handful of unintelligible curses.

But he was far from finished with Ichigo.

Grimmjow's palm slid down his length before curling fingers tight to give a tense stroke, and Ichigo's body jerked and writhed against it as he arched and cursed again.

He screwed his eyes shut, brow drawn tight. The hips hitting his with jarring strength were speeding up, the force unbearable until he wasn't sure he shouldn't be trying to get away from the bastard or if his body would move to obey even if he tried.

The hand didn't stop, though. It kept stroking, squeezing and twisting, driving him toward madness until he came hard, choking out a cry, gripping and straining against the blankets under him.

Grimmjow pushed his shoulders back flat to the mattress, the other hand gripping tight enough to mark as he held Ichigo against the staccato of a handful of harsh thrusts until he buried himself, body pulsing hard enough that Ichigo could feel it through the seeping numbness in his limbs. He shuddered, feeling Grimmjow do the same as he strained a final time before pulling back and rolling away to breathe in deep drafts of air.

Ichigo was boneless, strewn carelessly where he'd fallen.

Grimmjow didn't seem to have the same problem. He pushed up on an elbow and slipped off the condom with precise movements, tossing it into a small wastebasket beside the bed. "Not bad."

Ichigo tilted his head to watch as he climbed to his feet, stretched out long muscles then started toward the bathroom.

"Get dressed and get out."

It was all he got before the door snapped shut.

Ichigo stared at it, blinking. He was still trying to catch his_ breath._

He didn't know if he was more indignant or darkly amused at the denouement to his evening. He hadn't come thinking this was going to be anything more than a one night stand, but that was… abrupt. Ichigo glanced around and huffed out a breath. He didn't even know if it was _normal_.

The water turned on in the bathroom.

Right.

_Fine_. He was dismissed. What a _magical fucking experience_.

Ichigo rolled toward the edge of the bed, sat up and winced. The discomfort might only ache now, but it would be agony in the morning, he was damned sure.

What the fuck? Just tossing him out. It made his stomach churn and his teeth grind. The jackass could've at least let him clean up. Maybe offer a Tylenol. Or a fucking ride home.

With a scowl, he slid to his feet, teeth locked against the sting. But there was no way someone so angry didn't get headaches, and if he could be a dick, Ichigo could too. He didn't normally go uninvited through people's things, but sacrificing an aspirin was the least Grimmjow could do. Quite literally.

If Ichigo could find one.

The bedside table seemed promising.

Ichigo pulled it open.

Pill bottles. _Shocking_. Had he expected anything else?

Some were empty, others in varying states of fullness. He reached in and pulled one out. Carisoprodol. A muscle relaxer. Grimmjow's body spoke of hard physical training, so no surprises there. Demerol. Painkiller, and probably responsible for some of those twitchy mood swings. Zolpidem. Diazepam. Most of these weren't even supposed to be mixed. Buprenorphine. He paused at that one, frowning at the bottle before carefully setting it back down.

Great. He'd fucked a drug addict. At least, he knew there was likely something in the drawer that could fix his back. Pulling a few bottles out, he froze.

There was a vicious looking, sheathed knife in the bottom and beside it, a handgun. He knew enough not to touch it. Instead, he dropped all the pills except the painkillers. Opening the bottle, he broke a tab in half and swallowed it dry.

Loose bullets rattled around as he shut the drawer and took a breath.

Alright…

There were a lot of reasons a person might have a gun. It wasn't a big deal. Just an illegal gun. And signs that it was regularly used.

Shit.

Grimmjow's threats didn't seem so idle all of a sudden.

His clothes were where they'd been tossed. His shirt hung off one of the knobs of the dresser; shoes scattered around Grimmjow's pants. His jeans were on the floor closest to him and he scooped them up, easing one leg in then the other. He ignored the stinging and slight smell of blood. It could wait until he got home.

His phone slipped from his pocket and skidded across the floor.

Clicking his tongue in annoyance, he placed a hand on the dresser and bent to retrieve it, ignoring the throb of pain and straightening to slide it back into his pocket when something on one of the small shelves caught his eye.

He lifted the silver necklace as the bathroom door opened.

There was a slight pause to the steps before they continued.

"Thought I told you to be gone."

"Where did you get this?"

Grimmjow looked over, still dripping water with his towel draped low around his hips, but for the moment, Ichigo was immune.

"The fuck are you going through my shit?"

His other fist clenched. "Answer the fucking the question!"

The older male stilled, twisting to consider Ichigo then the jewelry hanging from his hand. He stalked the five long paces to rip it from Ichigo's fingers. "A friend left it."

"A friend left it?" He leveled him with a condescending glare. "In your bedroom?"

Grimmjow's grin was wide and dangerously sharp as he tilted his head down to Ichigo's.

"Jealous already?"

Then there was a hand wrapped around his throat and Grimmjow shoved, hard enough that if he'd spent anything less than years ruthlessly training his body, he would've gone down. As it was, he stumbled then slammed into the doorframe. A hinge dug into his back, burning like fire as he scraped across.

Grimmjow stalked closer.

"You took it like a slut. Figured you'd know how to get out like one."

Ichigo hesitated. His natural instinct was to fight back. To lash out in defiance. But he had no idea what Grimmjow was on and how much strength it was lending him. Or maybe his strength came from all that muscle, because Grimmjow was as solid as a cement wall. And it wasn't like Ichigo hadn't put himself in this situation.

Still, that comment stung.

He straightened, eyes narrowed beneath thick lashes as he ground his teeth, question unanswered. "Fine."

Ichigo snatched up his clothes and wrenched the door open. Didn't give a shit if there was anyone else in the house as he took the stairs, yanking his shirt on and crammed his shoes onto his feet. His first instinct was to slam the front door, but since Grimmjow was probably used to guys leaving in a pissed off rush, Ichigo left it wide open instead.

_Let_ the bastard wonder if he'd left.

If he wasn't so fucking, goddamned pissed as he stalked down the sidewalk, he might've felt an ugly stab of gratification imagining Grimmjow stomping around his massive home looking for him.

Good. Fucker.

The neighborhood was mostly residential, which meant no cabs would be anywhere close. Another good tiding. Fucking shit, could this have gone worse? The only thing he'd actually liked was the sex.

He sighed and dug his phone out of his pocket, flicking it open and searching for the nearest company to come pick him up. It took three calls to find anyone willing to make the drive to come get him, but he finally slid into the foul-smelling vehicle, giving the directions to his apartment and wishing he'd just stolen Grimmjow's car and left it in the club's parking lot. Except _that_ probably would've pissed the guy off enough that he would come looking for Ichigo, and Ichigo didn't want to ever have to see the asshole again.

He slid out at his stop and gave the most generous tip he could afford with a mumbled, "thanks" before trudging up the stairs. He needed a shower. He was sticky places he wasn't going to think about and had more scratches and bruises than he would've thought a person could get while doing something like that.

Shaking his head, he closed and locked his apartment door behind him, glad he didn't have any neighbors that would actually wake up by coming home so late. There were four apartments in his building, two of which were show apartments and rarely used, his, and the elderly woman that lived in the far corner apartment. He had the strong suspicion that she was either deaf or getting there. And if she wasn't, she probably wished she were with the amount of noise Ichigo's friends made when they came over. But she'd never complained. Small blessings.

As it was, the only time he saw Koeda-san was when she came out to water the jungle of hanging plants she kept on her patio.

Making his way to the shower, he flipped the water on hot before pulling his shirt over his head, undoing his belt, and easing down his jeans. The water stung when it hit and he flinched before forcing himself to stay under the spray.

But even with the way the night had gone— even knowing he'd done something stupid— he couldn't bring himself to regret it.

Could he have known what Grimmjow was before he'd gone? He'd had his suspicions. He'd known Grimmjow was dangerous. Though, finding a gun meant he wasn't just some college brat like the rest of Ichigo's friends that got into the occasional fistfight. And that tattoo made Ichigo think Yakuza. Not that he had any proof of that. Or that he wouldn't do anything about it if he did. Everyone had their own story. He didn't know anything about Grimmjow.

He'd just have to forget ever having met the bastard.

Or some of it. There were parts he wanted to remember. Grimmjow had been almost charming in his own way. Before he got what he wanted anyway.

Rinsing his hair, Ichigo shut the water off and climbed out, wrapping a towel around his waist and not bothering to dry off before falling into bed. He buried his head under his pillow and tried not to think about all the ways this could come back to bite him in the ass.

Was all sex like that? No wonder his friends were obsessed with it. He groaned and pulled his pillow tighter because it didn't change anything. He still wasn't going to be _that_ guy.

After a few minutes of trying to breathe from under his pillow, he let it go and flopped over to stare at the ceiling. Shadows from the traffic outside his apartment rippled across the ceiling until he closed his eyes.

He was being dramatic. As upset as he was, the real something that was bothering him had nothing to do with what he was fixating on.

Blowing out a long breath, he rolled over and pulled open his desk drawer, lifting out a small half of a pendent on a silver chain. He let it dangle from his fingers as he stared at half of an intricately carved fifteen before fisting it and rolling back over to sling the arm over his face.

The real question was why the hell did Grimmjow have Shiro's necklace?

.

.

**A/N**

**Well, you know how much I love smut that's totally pointless, but this is in actuality Smut That Turns the Plot****TM****. Buuut that said, it was pretty cut and dry considering they're strangers at this point, which was new for me. And YES, **_**Hollow Ichigo**_**. Go figure. I really like writing him okay.**

**Thanks for reading :) Please review.**


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Switchblade Heart

Warnings: Language, mentions of Grimmjow's balls, idk man.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

.

.

The sun was coming in his window, a stripe of too bright light flickering across closed eyelids every time the wind blew the leaves away from the glass. Grimmjow growled at it. Growled at the entire waking world. His tongue felt like insulation fluff in his mouth.

Rolling over, he groped for his glass, knocking god knew what to the floor before hitting something cold and hard and dragging it to his mouth. Except it was empty. Fucking shit.

Arm dangling over the edge of the mattress, he dropped it.

It hit carpet with a solid thump before rolling away.

There was nothing worse than crawling out of bed before he was ready. Besides, of course, whatever could _get_ him to crawl out of bed. Someone was in his fucking house.

He lay on his stomach a few more minutes before forcing his arms under him and slinging a foot to the floor, muttering unintelligible curses all the way down the cold stairs. This was why he hated having such a big ass empty house. It took ten minutes just to get from one side to the other. He didn't even step foot in most of the rooms.

It was a joke. His little suburban cage.

Fuck, Aizen hated him.

The only thing stopping Grimmjow burning the entire place to the ground was the fact that it belonged to that bastard. But only _just_.

An untouched lowball of vodka sat on the side table, a reminder of his tryst from the night before and he downed it before slumping onto the couch. He slung the arm holding the tumbler across his forehead, pressing cool glass to his temple and hummed.

Nice kid. Far too nice for him, but he'd been good in bed. Too bad he also came attached to a tongue that cut like a jagged razor. Grimmjow had spent half the night wanting to strangle him. At least the part where he wasn't trying to screw him through the mattress.

He snorted to himself and then acknowledged the man sitting in the armchair beside the piano that doubled as his most expensive cup holder.

"S' too early to fucking work. What're ya doin' here?"

Shawlong shifted through a folder on his lap, tapping papers into order. "Aizen-sama is not a hard man, but he expects results. It would be prudent not to disappoint him."

At the name, Grimmjow growled a warning, but Shawlong kept going, unfazed by Grimmjow's temper. Figured.

"Two of the group with the girl were found and dealt with the same night. There was another male. We don't have anything to start with other than he was young and must've been her acquaintance. We're to bring him back alive." Shawlong gave a thoughtful pause. "He must want him badly. He's given you a deadline for this one."

Was he still fucking talking?

"Give me that bottle if you're gonna keep going with that shit."

Shawlong sat his papers to the side and lifted the bottle as he passed, dropping it into Grimmjow's hand.

"He's not wrong. Something like this could crumble a good portion of the organization."

_Organization_. Grimmjow snorted at the word choice and swatted Shawlong's leg until he produced a small case and flipped it open. A crunching sound tickled his ear before Shawlong lifted a creased paper and upended the contents into his waiting mouth.

He took a drink from his bottle.

"If Nnoitra did what he said and dealt with it, we wouldn't still be finding these shits. Hell, if Aizen had put Szayel on it at the start, the girl would've spilled her guts five different ways. Gilga fucked up. End of story. Why am I the one stuck with cleanup?"

There was a pause while Shawlong took a long breath and Grimmjow tried to go back to sleep.

"You agreed to this last night."

He cracked an eye to sneer over. "What else was I supposed to do with Aizen grinding my balls under his heel? Fine, put the boys on it. Just shut up and lemme sleep."

A low buzzing started.

Shawlong reached in his overcoat and pulled out his phone to stare with a slight frown. "It's him."

Grimmjow sat up and snatched it. "The fuck did he know you were here?"

"There's always the chance he tried your number the same twenty times I did."

"Shut up." He flipped the phone open, waiting only a second before saying, "What?"

There was a pause and he had long enough to reconsider the way he'd chosen to answer. He could _hear_ the bastard sitting on the other side of the phone disapproving of him.

Shawlong rubbed his temples and muttered something about them both being dead by teatime.

Grimmjow ground his teeth and corrected himself. "Aizen-sama."

His throat nearly collapsed on the suffix.

"Grimmjow, I take it your man brought you the folder I sent."

His eyes flicked to the file Shawlong had sat beside his chair. "Yeah."

Another pause.

"Yes, I'm going through it," he bit out.

"Good. And you already have the flash drive, correct?"

"Yeah, I got it."

"Play it, please."

He thumped the bottle down on the table and a fresh branch of cracks appeared beside the older ones.

The goddamn drive was all the way upstairs. And he'd _seen_ it already the last million times Aizen had forced him to watch it, when they'd discovered that girl in the first place.

"Right, I got it. I got it. Playing it now."

Shawlong picked up the bottle and took a drink.

"At two minutes thirty-seven seconds, a shoulder enters the frame. It's brief and we mistook it for one of the two men we had, but upon their interrogation, neither was with the girl. I believe it's the male I have you tracking."

"How sure are you they told the truth? Maybe ya don't know this, but kids from the street tend to _lie_. Especially, if it's about information that pins someone that might want payback."

He could almost hear the asshole's pleasant smile.

"It's very difficult for a man or a _kid_ to come up with a convincing lie while he's missing pieces of his internal organs, Grimmjow. You may wish to remember that. Watch the disk. Review the files. Then destroy it."

The phone disconnected.

Shawlong plucked it from his hand before he could slam it into something.

Fucking shit hell.

He shoved himself up and stomped toward the stairs. "Find a laptop."

If he could only kill one more motherfucker in the whole of the godforsaken world, he'd pick Aizen. It'd be the end of the whole filthy empire he'd created, the end of Grimmjow's place at the top of it, but it'd be worth it. Better scrounging on the streets where he'd started than forced to be that asshat's lapdog.

He jerked open the drawer to his side table and fished around for the drive. When he didn't see it, he pulled it from the table and turned it out on the bed before tossing the draw to the side.

Where the fuck—

He ran his fingers through the contents, tossing irrelevant items and pill bottles aside until something small brushed his palm.

He frowned, plucking half a painkiller out of the mess and holding it up.

Someone had been in his drawer. He didn't break pills. Never thought about lessening a dose. Once you were hooked, it was always more, more, more. Not less.

His fist clenched on it.

The kid. "_Kurosaki_."

That fucking brat. He'd been played.

Grimmjow raked through the pile, scattering bullets and random paper before screaming and throwing the empty drawer into the wall.

He'd find him, and when he did, he'd fucking _kill_ him.

.

.

Ichigo shuffled through his mail as he walked toward his apartment door, clutching his dinner to his chest. He found only the usual monotony. A bill for books, a letter from the counseling office, flyers for various restaurants, parties, clubs.

Sticking the bill and letter between his teeth, he shoved the rest under his arm so he could fish for his keys.

It'd been four days since he'd gone home with a devastatingly attractive man with a personality disorder. Being buried in coursework was bad enough, but in the last few days, he'd failed a review, gotten bitched at by Renji for leaving his bike at the club, and been forced to endure a family dinner to collect the check for his month's expenses.

He hardly found time to breathe, but his frantic schedule hadn't stopped every memory from that night assaulting him at the least convenient times. During class, trying to read, when he slept, the middle of conversations.

Maybe he shouldn't have gone so long between partners or whatever people called it.

Although, to be fair, not everything on his mind had to do with sex. Not even most of it really.

It was the necklace. The one his brother had given him for his twelfth birthday. It was trinket from a mall kiosk, a silver plate stamped with a one and five on both sides. A few years later, he'd had it cut in half and restrung then he'd given it back.

It was completely unique. There wasn't another one like it. No chance it'd come from anyone else. It was proof his brother was alive— or at least had been recently. How long had he been desperate for that?

He'd looked up the gun. Quietly, while glancing over his shoulder on a library computer in case someone decided to be nosy. Sifting through photo after photo, he finally found the one burned into his mind's eye. It was a special grade firearm, used more in the far west. There was no telling how Grimmjow had gotten it, but it was a near certainty that it'd been through a less than ethical means. Smuggled, if nothing else.

But as much thought as he'd been giving it, something different bothered him.

There was no way it'd been chance that they'd both been in Grimmjow's room. He and his brother. Tokyo was home to millions, and beside that, Grimmjow had been watching him.

At the time, when Ichigo had glanced up to find a stranger watching him, he'd thought it passing interest. Then later in the bathroom, he'd figured Grimmjow was just trying to get laid. Now, it seemed like something else entirely. Something more menacing.

Like Grimmjow had targeted him. Or something.

Ichigo had no idea what he was supposed to think.

His life certainly wasn't normal in the typical sense— as much as he _tried_. His father renouncing a prestigious health career at a major hospital to practice small town medicine. His medical miracle elder twin turned juvenile delinquent. A second set of twins. The tragic demise of the promising doctor's young wife. Ichigo knew the truth behind all those stories and rumors though.

It was nothing sensational.

His father had simply left to give his sickly newborn the attention he deserved. Shiro had grown used to being the center of attention, and his mom… That'd been nothing more than a brain tumor. Small and undetected until it wasn't so small, and she'd collapsed into the kitchen floor, dead a few feet from where her husband might've tried to resuscitate her had he been home.

Though Isshin kept his chin up, Ichigo knew it'd killed him on the inside— watching the family he'd loved enough to give up everything, deteriorating.

Shaking his head, he jammed his key into the lock, opened the door then toed it shut behind him before stumbling over a shoe in his path.

Ichigo stopped and frowned at it then toward where all his other shoes were stacked just how he always left them.

That wasn't right.

Only one was out of place and since he lived alone, there was no way it had moved six inches into the path of the door while he was out on its own.

His body tensed and he dropped his sack of groceries as silently as he could into the chair beside him.

For all the teasing he got about being fussy with his things, there were _reasons_ he liked them a certain way.

Someone had been in his apartment.

Or still was.

He scanned the room. _One of his friends…? _

They'd all exchanged keys at some point.

But Renji and Rukia were in Nakamura visiting her brother. He'd talked to Chad after his last class. Keigo could be annoying, but he wouldn't dare. Mizuro had the means and the nerve, but he still wouldn't. Ishida didn't come half the times he had an _invitation_. Inoue wasn't that intrusive. His father knew there would be a trip to Intensive Care if he dared step foot there again without permission. His sister's might, but not without calling.

Those were all his closest friends and family members.

Taking silent steps further inside, he moved toward his room. The closer he stalked, the more he was certain he heard the faint rustling of someone going through his things. Then the snap of a drawer closing and he bared teeth without sound.

_Got you, fucker._

He spun around the frame, fist already raised and swinging… The male turned and yanked his head back, and Ichigo's fist met empty air.

But that wasn't what stopped his attack.

Pale skin. Pale everything.

Ichigo blinked, stunned enough to freeze a few steps into the room as the sight started to filter through his anger-fogged brain.

His intruder gave a somewhat sheepish, lopsided smirk. White hair hung in front of dark eyes in pieces the same way Ichigo's would've if he hadn't been keeping it shorter. It wasn't quite shoulder length, but he'd shaved it over one ear in some sort of punk, grunge style Ichigo couldn't name.

It was such a mundane detail for his brain to grab onto.

He couldn't move, struggled to draw a proper breath. As if a fist had reached into his chest and squeezed something vital between clenched fingers. Then just as fast, the dam of clogged emotion broke. Relief so fierce he almost choked on it flooded his chest, sharp and crisp as cool water.

_Shiro_.

How long had it been? When was the last time he'd seen his brother? He'd flit out of Ichigo's life and back again like a stray for years, but he'd never stayed gone so long.

Shiro straightened to face him. His eyes searching Ichigo's face.

Ichigo thought he looked nervous, regretful maybe, but that was ridiculous. Shiro had never been sorry a day in his life. Regret wasn't part of his vocabulary. And Ichigo didn't even care, because he was _here_. Whole. _Alive_.

Still watching him, Shiro ventured, "Borrowed some clothes. Used your shower. Figured ya wouldn't mind."

Ichigo blinked. That was all Shiro had to _say_? Ichigo's head was a flipbook of indignant emotions fluttering in rapid succession. Confusion, anger, _hurt_. The fist at his side tightened again and Shiro eyed it like he would edge away.

When he spoke, his voice was low but even, which surprised him since the rest of him seemed to be shaking. "So you do know where I live. And here I was worried that you'd just gotten lost or maybe abducted or killed. My mistake."

Shiro winced, but recovered well, flashing another self-deprecating grin as he shifted.

"Guess you're pissed. I was kinda hopin' more for tears of joy."

Ichigo closed his eyes and shook his head in the attempt to process how Shiro could be _making fucking jokes_. He would've walked out of the room if there wasn't still a small, irrational fear that this was all in his mind or that his brother would disappear the second he turned his back.

It wouldn't be the first time.

"_You_—" He swallowed the bile creeping up his throat and tried again. "I thought you were dead."

Shiro slanted him a look.

"No, ya didn't."

Ichigo glared.

"Fine," he bit out, "I didn't know what had happened. _Where the hell_ have you _been_? Do you know how worried we were…? What we went through? Waiting for the police to tell us they found a body? How could you do that to us? To Karin? Yuzu? After everything? After _mom_—"

His eyes were burning, and he looked away to keep the angry tears where they belonged.

Why was he bothering? Shiro wouldn't apologize. He probably wasn't even _capable_ of doubting his choices. Ichigo should hit him. He _should_. But then he felt arms snake around his tensed shoulders and all he could do was hold the asshole back.

He clutched a hand in the fabric covering his twin's back and pressed his face into a shoulder. "I hate you so much. You're such a _bastard_."

Shiro huffed and Ichigo could hear his smile. God, he'd fucking missed that. "Well, that don't hold well for you then, does it? We're brothers, dumbass." He snorted another laugh and pawed at Ichigo's hair in what was probably supposed to be affection, but just made Ichigo want to gut-check him. "Ya always were a crybaby."

"Shut up. I'm not fucking crying. I'm— I'm—" He blinked and leaned his head back to get a better look at his brother. "Hey, that's… my favorite shirt."

He pushed Shiro to arm's length. And there it was, stamped across the front in bold letters. _Nice Vibe._

Shiro grinned. "Looks good on me, right?"

_Unbelievable_.

Ichigo stared a long moment then frowned, pulled his phone from his pocket, and started dialing the clinic.

"Dad's going to kill you—"

Shiro latched onto his wrist, keeping it from his ear and then pushing the end-call button when it started to ring. "Yeah, 'bout the old man… Don't think that's such a good idea."

Ichigo felt something tighten back up in his chest.

Ichigo didn't have to ask what that meant, because he knew. Even after so much time apart, he could read his brother's expressions as clearly as if he had a window into his mind.

"You're not staying."

Pale lips twitched. "No, I am…"

Ichigo raised a brow when Shiro hesitated. "That was pathetic. I know you're a better liar than that."

Shiro grinned, but it fell away at Ichigo's dark expression. He scratched his head. "Ya got a life now, Ichi. I wasn't tryin'—"

"Idiot. You _are_ part of my life."

Shiro pushed a hand through his hair again and took a long breath. When he looked up, his wild smile was back. Defense system fully intact.

Seeing the imminent lost battle, Ichigo closed his mouth and scowled, pushing back anything else that wanted to jump out of his mouth and berate his brother about the stupid, hurtful, idiotic choices he'd made.

He swallowed.

"You look half starved. When was the last time you ate?"

Shiro perked at the mention of food.

He crossed back into the living room to retrieve his groceries, finding it harder than it should've been to let his brother out of his sight. But it was only for a moment since his brother emerged from the bedroom to lean against the doorframe.

Ichigo sat his sack on the counter and started pulling things out. "Where have you been? You stopped returning my texts, my calls."

Shiro crossed closer, reaching up to pass a hand across the side of his neck.

"You know, here and there, I guess."

He pulled out a cutting board and a knife, frowning as he unwrapped the meat. "What kind of answer is that?"

"The kind that won't get you in trouble."

Shiro reached out and started gathering produce to wash while Ichigo scowled harder at the lump of pork he was slicing.

After a long silence, he let it go.

"You can have my bed, I'll sleep on the couch."

"I don't wanna take—"

"It'll make it harder for you to sneak passed me." His hands had stilled on the knife, but he went back to chopping after giving his twin a pointed look. "And the window's busted, so don't bother trying it."

Shiro snorted and set the colander beside him. "Ya know I've never been very good at stayin' where I'm put."

"I know."

"And it's not your fault."

He blinked hard, swallowing. "I know."

Shiro nodded and went to mess with his television and poke through his things while Ichigo cooked. He wasn't great at it, but by the time he was finished, there were two edible plates of rice and vegetables.

His brother ate like an inmate and when Shiro finished his own food, Ichigo pushed his half-eaten meal over.

"You're thin."

Shiro looked up, talking around a mouthful of food as examined Ichigo. "Really? How much you weigh?"

"One forty-five."

Yellow eyes widened a touch before Shiro shrugged. "I got some catchin' up to do."

Ichigo rested his hands on his coffee cup, absorbing the heat from the sides. "So…" He pushed a hand through his hair and looked away. "Met anyone?"

"All the time." Shiro grinned, but lost it a second later. He pushed a piece of meat around his plate as he watched his brother. "Why ya askin', Ichi?"

That gaze was too sharp. And Ichigo really didn't want to interrogate him anymore. Not when he'd only just come back. It wouldn't do anything but start a fight Ichigo wouldn't win.

Ichigo dropped his eyes with a shrug. "Just thinking."

.

.

It'd only been a week and Ichigo was already debating over the best place to dump a body.

"You can't wear that, it's obscene. And stop cutting up my clothes."

He scowled over with a hint of disgust at Shiro and the loose shirt he'd chopped the bottom off to highlight his well-toned abs. Skin-tight pants rode dangerously low on his hips, and he slid his arms into a jacket before tugging at the bottom and pulling at the sleeves. He turned in the mirror to look at himself.

Even with all the muscle running down his middle, it was still slender enough to be called delicate.

He looked like a porn star.

Ichigo grimaced in something close to disgust.

"I am not going out with you like that. You're going to get raped."

Shiro snorted and half sneered at the idea. "I'd like to see the idiot that thinks he's big enough ta try." Then he seemed to rethink that and turned to give Ichigo a sly grin. "Ya mean you're so sure somethin' awful's gonna happen and still can't even bring yourself to work up the nerve to be _seen_ with me. That's cold, Ichi."

Ichigo shot him a look.

Whereas a normal person might spend time trying to think up a biting remark, Shiro always had so many vicious comments to make, it was like he couldn't pick between them. You never really knew what you were going to get.

He wasn't sure why he was bothering.

Rolling his eyes, he turned to start pulling on his own clothes. Shiro would do and wear whatever he wanted. No point arguing about it.

"So where we goin'?" Shiro asked, after he'd once again pillaged Ichigo's closet and left a trail of defenseless clothing in his wake.

"You're the one that wanted to go out."

"Apartment's boring, makes me feel like a shut in."

"You could always get a job."

Shiro's slightly horrified look flashed at him in the mirror. "Don't even joke about that. How long do you think I'd handle takin' someone else's shit before they're havin' ta put a picture of me in the news?"

He snorted, lifting a shirt to tug over his head only to find it gone from his hands the next minute. "H-hey!"

Shiro held it out from him like it was carrying a disease he didn't want to catch. "All these clothes and ya pick _that_. Here."

He tossed Ichigo a tank top.

Ichigo didn't see how that was better.

"I guess I could wear that… if I was planning to let you pimp me out."

"Like it'd hurt ya to get laid."

Ichigo winced.

It was a delicate subject. One he'd tried not to breach, but had a feeling he couldn't avoid for long.

The image of Grimmjow yanking Shiro's necklace from his hand flashed through his mind, and as much as he wanted to ask about it, there was something that told him it was a bad idea. If Shiro was in some sort of trouble, poking through his business would only make him run. His brother didn't just share things like that. Not even with him.

No, _especially_ not with him.

Shiro finally stuffed him into a pair of rolled up jeans and a v-neck cut low enough he felt a constant draft clear down to his stomach.

He fought a deeper than usual scowl as they finally left the apartment and started down the sidewalk.

"Stop poutin'."

"I'm not, this is uncomfortable."

"Couldn't be that uncomfortable. Ya bought it, didn't you?"

His jaw ached he was grinding his teeth so hard.

"Where," he asked, "do you want to go?"

Shiro tilted his head and considered him. "Definitely poutin'." But he shrugged and nudged Ichigo with an elbow. "You pick since it's your treat."

Ichigo stumbled, mouth pinched as he corrected his footing. "I had no idea I was feeling that generous."

"S' why you're such a popular guy."

He glared and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

Shiro draped an arm over his shoulders and grinned. Probably because he knew he'd won.

.

.

Two hours later and Shiro was bored. "So what now? If yer not gonna take me drinkin' at least."

Ichigo snorted. He'd honestly forgotten how high maintenance his brother could be.

"I can't afford to take you boozing. You drank grown men under the table in high school. I can't imagine you've let such a productive skill go to waste."

Shiro's face fell. "Ouch."

A tiny needle of guilt scraped down his spine.

But Shiro shook it off the next second. Or he was smiling again anyway. "Guess that's fair. No dives then. What about— Oh." He grinned. "I got it."

He stopped and Ichigo did too, turning puzzled eyes to see what had so thoroughly caught his interest. He could only hope it wasn't something hazardous.

Then he blinked.

Shiro grinned back again before swiping at his arm in a playful punch. "Ya feel like gettin' yer ass kicked?"

The arcade was fully lit and held enough people that they were spilling out into the street. The games, bells, buzzers, and whistles rang out over shouting children and teenagers.

"You're kidding."

Shiro was already heading inside and Ichigo sighed, but followed, pausing as a crowd of people passed between them. Someone slammed into his shoulder hard enough to turn him around and he bit down on an unfriendly curse as he got the finger from a guy around his age for his trouble. Ichigo glared and Finger Guy did a double take before turning to stumble back through the crowd.

But it wasn't the first time his scowling face had saved him from having to interact with unpleasant people, and it wouldn't be the last.

He sighed and tried to force his irritation back.

Shiro was playing an outdated fight RPG by the time Ichigo found him. A bag of coins sitting on the multicolored plexiglass by his hand.

Ichigo fought the urge to check for his wallet. "Where'd you get money?"

"I'd tell ya, but it'd just make ya yell."

_Oh, for fuck's sake._

"Just say you didn't take it from a kid."

Shiro's player pulled some sort of combo that left Player 2 spraying bright red, pixelated blood over the screen. "Would it help ya sleep at night?"

He dropped the hand that was scrubbing at his forehead. "_Yes_."

Shiro turned to grin at him, only to have his mouth snap shut, expression gone as his eyes passed Ichigo's face and landed somewhere over his shoulder.

His brother almost never made that face. Serious. Alert. Calculating. He was all of those things, but hardly ever at the same time.

Ichigo's back straightened and he followed the look without needing to be told.

The male Ichigo had run into earlier stood across the arcade, staring back. When Ichigo looked closer, he could see a cell phone pressed to his ear as the guy moved behind a game.

He turned back.

"You know him?"

Except, Shiro wasn't there.

Twisting his head, gaze flicking through the crowd, he saw a flash of white hair deeper in the arcade and started after it as fast as the packed room allowed. People stopped in front of him or blocked his view. He tossed politeness out the window and pushed his way past, scouring the dimly lit throng for an unnaturally pale head. The sound of a heavy door closing met his ears and he turned in time to feel the cool brush of night air. Without a second thought, he darted after.

The security door closed behind him with a solid clank and there was no handle to get back in.

It didn't matter. Shiro was hoping over the brick wall that dead-ended the alley, and then he was out of sight.

_What the fuck was going on?_

Ichigo called after him, but he already knew Shiro wasn't stopping.

He took the wall.

It'd been a long time since he'd felt the need to run from anyone. It surprised him how sharp the skill still held. He rebounded off of a brick window sill, catching the top of the ledge and pulling himself over. It scraped his stomach, but not enough to make him stop.

But what he saw on the other side of the wall was.

Shiro was boxed in, prowling between a group of hooded thugs in front and the wall behind like a caged tiger.

Ichigo almost felt sorry for the thugs.

A hand latched onto Ichigo's ankle and he grit a curse. Twisting, he saw Finger Guy and narrowed his eyes before kicking the asshole square in the face. He went down with a shout and the hollow thunk of skull hitting pavement tailed him.

Ichigo jumped down to land beside Shiro.

The men that had started creeping closer scattered back again, looking over their heads to make sure no one else came. He didn't recognize any of them, but obviously, they were there for his brother.

In the back of the loose group, one of the thugs muttered something to another and pointed at him, gesturing to his hair. Clearly the resemblance confused them. Idiots.

Ichigo scowled back hard before glancing at Shiro.

"Thanks for waiting, asshole."

"Did it occur to ya that maybe I didn't _want_ ya here for this?"

Ichigo gave him a flat look. "Fuck that."

Shiro sighed and Ichigo continued since the group in front of them seemed to be at some kind of loss now that there were two of them.

"What is this? Who are these guys?"

"Just the fellas that work for another fella I pissed off pretty good."

He frowned, because that didn't answer the question at all. "They don't seem organized. Do you think they'd notice if we just went back over the wall?"

Shiro grinned right as the thug in back yelled, "I don't care who looks the fuck like what, we'll just fuckin' take both of 'em!"

Ichigo turned back and shifted his stance.

_About time_.

He'd counted twelve while he was coming over the wall, minus the thug shouting orders, hanging toward the back.

If this was about Grimmjow, they really were going to have to talk.

It was the last thought he had before a foot stepped into his range and he lunged for the first guy, grabbing an arm and yanking his assailant off-balance before smashing his face with a fist. Then he moved on to the next.

It felt good to fight without limiting his abilities to hits that wouldn't do real damage, and it would've been simple to take out their attackers if there hadn't been so many. They were clumsy. Telegraphing their moves before they ever made them. Only one or two seemed to know anything about fighting and they still weren't anywhere near what Ichigo would consider proficient.

Tatsuki could've taken them easy. Alone probably.

A body flew through the air and Ichigo jerked back, almost tripping over his first attacker as it smacked into the one he'd been fighting. He tilted his head just enough to see Shiro grin at him before they were both forced back to the fight.

They were making progress. Two had run, carrying their injuries with them. Only five were left.

Then three.

Ichigo was sticky with sweat and the dust they were stirring up with their feet, but it didn't slow him. One more chose to run, but another picked himself up and tried his luck a second time.

Then something brushed his shoulder as a crack slashed through the sounds of fighting.

At first, he thought someone grazed him with a knife. Then the blood that'd flicked across his face registered and fire burst through his arm like an imploding star.

The thug he'd been fighting went down, clipped by whatever had hit Ichigo.

He jerked his back up, eyes automatically finding the gun aimed at his chest, even as his other hand went to stop the bleeding. Finger Guy. Ichigo had forgotten about him. His face was a mess, nose busted and askew, bleeding and bruised.

_Shit_.

Ichigo tried to take a step back from the man that looked pissed enough to kill.

But running wouldn't do any good. He wasn't faster than a gun.

The barrel wavered as the trigger was squeezed and then lurched to the side, tilting away as Shiro snapped a kick into the wrist holding it.

Ichigo nearly collapsed.

His twin was one of the rare people whose fear made them violently angry. Ichigo could handle himself, but his natural sense of responsibility forced him to stop and think things through before he did something stupid. It made him freeze.

Shiro didn't.

He moved with the grace of countless hours spent in training and countless hours more brawling on the streets. He twisted around and was between Ichigo and the his shooter in a second, arm latching out to hold the gun arm trapped between a bicep and his side, locking it in place while the other came down on the elbow. The arm bent unnaturally with a sickening crunch of bone and snapped tendons. The kind of sound skin couldn't mask.

The gun clattered from the loosened grip as the male shrieked a hoarse cry. Shiro struck with another kick to the side of his face with his heel, hard enough to take him all the way to the ground in one blow. And he didn't stop. He kicked him again.

Ichigo's held breath rushed out and he finally looked at his arm.

There was too much blood to see the wound clearly, but he still felt strong enough to fight. Except, when he looked, no one was left.

Numb, Ichigo started forward, glancing around to make sure there weren't going to be any more dangerous surprises like that one. When he reached his brother, the face of the man he was beating couldn't be seen through the blood.

Ichigo choked and reached for him. "Shiro, _stop_."

He had to use both arms to pull him away, and the effort had the ground spinning as he wobbled trying to keep his balance.

Shiro latched on to him, looking him over, fingers pulling at the clothes over his chest and searching for a bullet hole he wasn't going to find there. His eyes were feral. Even through his own cold shock, Ichigo could feel him shaking, but he finally located the source of the bleeding and tore off the scrap of a shirt he'd been wearing to stem some of the bleeding.

Ichigo winced. "Easy."

His twin ignored him and prodded at his arm until Ichigo saw stars.

"It passed through, might've clipped muscle. Ya won't die, but it'll hurt like a bitch while it heals." He shook his head. "Lucky little shit."

"Lucky?"

They both looked down at what was left of his shooter.

Ichigo swallowed. "Is he alive…?"

Shiro bared his teeth. "Fuckin' hope not."

"Shut up." He shoved Shiro back, not sure if his twin planned to correct it.

Dropping to the man's side, he groped around his neck for a pulse. There was so much blood between the two of them his fingers slipped.

Then the rasping sound of air scraping out of a damaged throat reached Ichigo and he crumpled with relief.

"Fuck. Thank—"

"Ichi…" Shiro started.

At first, he thought Shiro would apologize, but the sound of a chain clashing against brick echoed through the alley. Shadows in the shape of people trickled into the space between buildings.

"More?"

"No… These ain't the same guys."

As much as he wondered how Shiro knew that or why _multiple_ gangs seemed to be after him, it wasn't the time to ask.

He heard Shiro move, but Ichigo's eyes were fixed on the men coming toward them.

"We can't fight this many like this. We have to—" Turning, he grabbed at Shiro only to be met with the sight of the brick wall behind him.

He blinked, stupidly wondering why his brother wasn't there as the first of the second wave reached him.

.

.

**A/N**

**This was a long chapter and I feel like it wasn't as clear as I wanted it to be with all those huge chunks of narrative, but this isn't a terribly lengthy story so I just went with it. It also only received a brief editing so let me know if you see any typos that need to be fixed and I'll get to it asap.**

**Thank you for reading! Please leave a review c':**


End file.
